The History of Tom Jones, a foundling
by
Henry Fielding
Part 9 out of 18
evil, or only the cause of evil, I was entirely void of it, and at the
same time of friends, and, as I thought, of acquaintance; when one
evening, as I was passing through the Inner Temple, very hungry, and
very miserable, I heard a voice on a sudden hailing me with great
familiarity by my Christian name; and upon turning about, I presently
recollected the person who so saluted me to have been my
fellow-collegiate; one who had left the university above a year, and
long before any of my misfortunes had befallen me. This gentleman,
whose name was Watson, shook me heartily by the hand; and expressing
great joy at meeting me, proposed our immediately drinking a bottle
together. I first declined the proposal, and pretended business, but
as he was very earnest and pressing, hunger at last overcame my pride,
and I fairly confessed to him I had no money in my pocket; yet not
without framing a lie for an excuse, and imputing it to my having
changed my breeches that morning. Mr Watson answered, `I thought,
Jack, you and I had been too old acquaintance for you to mention such
a matter.' He then took me by the arm, and was pulling me along; but I
gave him very little trouble, for my own inclinations pulled me much
stronger than he could do.
"We then went into the Friars, which you know is the scene of all
mirth and jollity. Here, when we arrived at the tavern, Mr Watson
applied himself to the drawer only, without taking the least notice of
the cook; for he had no suspicion but that I had dined long since.
However, as the case was really otherwise, I forged another falsehood,
and told my companion I had been at the further end of the city on
business of consequence, and had snapt up a mutton-chop in haste; so
that I was again hungry, and wished he would add a beef-steak to his
bottle."--"Some people," cries Partridge, "ought to have good
memories; or did you find just money enough in your breeches to pay
for the mutton-chop?"--"Your observation is right," answered the
stranger, "and I believe such blunders are inseparable from all
dealing in untruth.--But to proceed--I began now to feel myself
extremely happy. The meat and wine soon revived my spirits to a high
pitch, and I enjoyed much pleasure in the conversation of my old
acquaintance, the rather as I thought him entirely ignorant of what
had happened at the university since his leaving it.
"But he did not suffer me to remain long in this agreeable delusion;
for taking a bumper in one hand, and holding me by the other, `Here,
my boy,' cries he, `here's wishing you joy of your being so honourably
acquitted of that affair laid to your charge.' I was thunderstruck
with confusion at those words, which Watson observing, proceeded thus:
`Nay, never be ashamed, man; thou hast been acquitted, and no one now
dares call thee guilty; but, prithee, do tell me, who am thy friend--I
hope thou didst really rob him? for rat me if it was not a meritorious
action to strip such a sneaking, pitiful rascal; and instead of the
two hundred guineas, I wish you had taken as many thousand. Come,
come, my boy, don't be shy of confessing to me: you are not now
brought before one of the pimps. D--n me if I don't honour you for it;
for, as I hope for salvation, I would have made no manner of scruple
of doing the same thing.'
"This declaration a little relieved my abashment; and as wine had now
somewhat opened my heart, I very freely acknowledged the robbery, but
acquainted him that he had been misinformed as to the sum taken, which
was little more than a fifth part of what he had mentioned.
"`I am sorry for it with all my heart,' quoth he, `and I wish thee
better success another time. Though, if you will take my advice, you
shall have no occasion to run any such risque. Here,' said he, taking
some dice out of his pocket, `here's the stuff. Here are the
implements; here are the little doctors which cure the distempers of
the purse. Follow but my counsel, and I will show you a way to empty
the pocket of a queer cull without any danger of the nubbing cheat.'"
"Nubbing cheat!" cries Partridge: "pray, sir, what is that?"
"Why that, sir," says the stranger, "is a cant phrase for the gallows;
for as gamesters differ little from highwaymen in their morals, so do
they very much resemble them in their language.
"We had now each drank our bottle, when Mr Watson said, the board was
sitting, and that he must attend, earnestly pressing me at the same
time to go with him and try my fortune. I answered he knew that was at
present out of my power, as I had informed him of the emptiness of my
pocket. To say the truth, I doubted not from his many strong
expressions of friendship, but that he would offer to lend me a small
sum for that purpose, but he answered, `Never mind that, man; e'en
boldly run a levant' [Partridge was going to inquire the meaning of
that word, but Jones stopped his mouth]: `but be circumspect as to the
man. I will tip you the proper person, which may be necessary, as you
do not know the town, nor can distinguish a rum cull from a queer
one."
"The bill was now brought, when Watson paid his share, and was
departing. I reminded him, not without blushing, of my having no
money. He answered, `That signifies nothing; score it behind the door,
or make a bold brush and take no notice.--Or--stay,' says he; `I will
go down-stairs first, and then do you take up my money, and score the
whole reckoning at the bar, and I will wait for you at the corner.' I
expressed some dislike at this, and hinted my expectations that he
would have deposited the whole; but he swore he had not another
sixpence in his pocket.
"He then went down, and I was prevailed on to take up the money and
follow him, which I did close enough to hear him tell the drawer the
reckoning was upon the table. The drawer past by me up-stairs; but I
made such haste into the street, that I heard nothing of his
disappointment, nor did I mention a syllable at the bar, according to
my instructions.
"We now went directly to the gaming-table, where Mr Watson, to my
surprize, pulled out a large sum of money and placed it before him, as
did many others; all of them, no doubt, considering their own heaps as
so many decoy birds, which were to intice and draw over the heaps of
their neighbours.
"Here it would be tedious to relate all the freaks which Fortune, or
rather the dice, played in this her temple. Mountains of gold were in
a few moments reduced to nothing at one part of the table, and rose as
suddenly in another. The rich grew in a moment poor, and the poor as
suddenly became rich; so that it seemed a philosopher could nowhere
have so well instructed his pupils in the contempt of riches, at least
he could nowhere have better inculcated the incertainty of their
duration.
"For my own part, after having considerably improved my small estate,
I at last entirely demolished it. Mr Watson too, after much variety of
luck, rose from the table in some heat, and declared he had lost a
cool hundred, and would play no longer. Then coming up to me, he asked
me to return with him to the tavern; but I positively refused, saying,
I would not bring myself a second time into such a dilemma, and
especially as he had lost all his money and was now in my own
condition. `Pooh!' says he, `I have just borrowed a couple of guineas
of a friend, and one of them is at your service.' He immediately put
one of them into my hand, and I no longer resisted his inclination.
"I was at first a little shocked at returning to the same house whence
we had departed in so unhandsome a manner; but when the drawer, with
very civil address, told us, `he believed we had forgot to pay our
reckoning,' I became perfectly easy, and very readily gave him a
guinea, bid him pay himself, and acquiesced in the unjust charge which
had been laid on my memory.
"Mr Watson now bespoke the most extravagant supper he could well think
of; and though he had contented himself with simple claret before,
nothing now but the most precious Burgundy would serve his purpose.
"Our company was soon encreased by the addition of several gentlemen
from the gaming-table; most of whom, as I afterwards found, came not
to the tavern to drink, but in the way of business; for the true
gamesters pretended to be ill, and refused their glass, while they
plied heartily two young fellows, who were to be afterwards pillaged,
as indeed they were without mercy. Of this plunder I had the good
fortune to be a sharer, though I was not yet let into the secret.
"There was one remarkable accident attended this tavern play; for the
money by degrees totally disappeared; so that though at the beginning
the table was half covered with gold, yet before the play ended, which
it did not till the next day, being Sunday, at noon, there was scarce
a single guinea to be seen on the table; and this was the stranger as
every person present, except myself, declared he had lost; and what
was become of the money, unless the devil himself carried it away, is
difficult to determine."
"Most certainly he did," says Partridge, "for evil spirits can carry
away anything without being seen, though there were never so many folk
in the room; and I should not have been surprized if he had carried
away all the company of a set of wicked wretches, who were at play in
sermon time. And I could tell you a true story, if I would, where the
devil took a man out of bed from another man's wife, and carried him
away through the keyhole of the door. I've seen the very house where
it was done, and nobody hath lived in it these thirty years."
Though Jones was a little offended by the impertinence of Partridge,
he could not however avoid smiling at his simplicity. The stranger did
the same, and then proceeded with his story, as will be seen in the
next chapter.
Chapter xiii.
In which the foregoing story is farther continued.
"My fellow-collegiate had now entered me in a new scene of life. I
soon became acquainted with the whole fraternity of sharpers, and was
let into their secrets; I mean, into the knowledge of those gross
cheats which are proper to impose upon the raw and unexperienced; for
there are some tricks of a finer kind, which are known only to a few
of the gang, who are at the head of their profession; a degree of
honour beyond my expectation; for drink, to which I was immoderately
addicted, and the natural warmth of my passions, prevented me from
arriving at any great success in an art which requires as much
coolness as the most austere school of philosophy.
"Mr Watson, with whom I now lived in the closest amity, had unluckily
the former failing to a very great excess; so that instead of making a
fortune by his profession, as some others did, he was alternately rich
and poor, and was often obliged to surrender to his cooler friends,
over a bottle which they never tasted, that plunder that he had taken
from culls at the public table.
"However, we both made a shift to pick up an uncomfortable livelihood;
and for two years I continued of the calling; during which time I
tasted all the varieties of fortune, sometimes flourishing in
affluence, and at others being obliged to struggle with almost
incredible difficulties. To-day wallowing in luxury, and to-morrow
reduced to the coarsest and most homely fare. My fine clothes being
often on my back in the evening, and at the pawn-shop the next
morning.
"One night, as I was returning pennyless from the gaming-table, I
observed a very great disturbance, and a large mob gathered together
in the street. As I was in no danger from pickpockets, I ventured into
the croud, where upon enquiry I found that a man had been robbed and
very ill used by some ruffians. The wounded man appeared very bloody,
and seemed scarce able to support himself on his legs. As I had not
therefore been deprived of my humanity by my present life and
conversation, though they had left me very little of either honesty or
shame, I immediately offered my assistance to the unhappy person, who
thankfully accepted it, and, putting himself under my conduct, begged
me to convey him to some tavern, where he might send for a surgeon,
being, as he said, faint with loss of blood. He seemed indeed highly
pleased at finding one who appeared in the dress of a gentleman; for
as to all the rest of the company present, their outside was such that
he could not wisely place any confidence in them.
"I took the poor man by the arm, and led him to the tavern where we
kept our rendezvous, as it happened to be the nearest at hand. A
surgeon happening luckily to be in the house, immediately attended,
and applied himself to dressing his wounds, which I had the pleasure
to hear were not likely to be mortal.
"The surgeon having very expeditiously and dextrously finished his
business, began to enquire in what part of the town the wounded man
lodged; who answered, `That he was come to town that very morning;
that his horse was at an inn in Piccadilly, and that he had no other
lodging, and very little or no acquaintance in town.'
"This surgeon, whose name I have forgot, though I remember it began
with an R, had the first character in his profession, and was
serjeant-surgeon to the king. He had moreover many good qualities, and
was a very generous good-natured man, and ready to do any service to
his fellow-creatures. He offered his patient the use of his chariot to
carry him to his inn, and at the same time whispered in his ear, `That
if he wanted any money, he would furnish him.'
"The poor man was not now capable of returning thanks for this
generous offer; for having had his eyes for some time stedfastly on
me, he threw himself back in his chair, crying, `Oh, my son! my son!'
and then fainted away.
"Many of the people present imagined this accident had happened
through his loss of blood; but I, who at the same time began to
recollect the features of my father, was now confirmed in my
suspicion, and satisfied that it was he himself who appeared before
me. I presently ran to him, raised him in my arms, and kissed his cold
lips with the utmost eagerness. Here I must draw a curtain over a
scene which I cannot describe; for though I did not lose my being, as
my father for a while did, my senses were however so overpowered with
affright and surprize, that I am a stranger to what passed during some
minutes, and indeed till my father had again recovered from his swoon,
and I found myself in his arms, both tenderly embracing each other,
while the tears trickled a-pace down the cheeks of each of us.
"Most of those present seemed affected by this scene, which we, who
might be considered as the actors in it, were desirous of removing
from the eyes of all spectators as fast as we could; my father
therefore accepted the kind offer of the surgeon's chariot, and I
attended him in it to his inn.
"When we were alone together, he gently upbraided me with having
neglected to write to him during so long a time, but entirely omitted
the mention of that crime which had occasioned it. He then informed me
of my mother's death, and insisted on my returning home with him,
saying, `That he had long suffered the greatest anxiety on my account;
that he knew not whether he had most feared my death or wished it,
since he had so many more dreadful apprehensions for me. At last, he
said, a neighbouring gentleman, who had just recovered a son from the
same place, informed him where I was; and that to reclaim me from this
course of life was the sole cause of his journey to London.' He
thanked Heaven he had succeeded so far as to find me out by means of
an accident which had like to have proved fatal to him; and had the
pleasure to think he partly owed his preservation to my humanity, with
which he profest himself to be more delighted than he should have been
with my filial piety, if I had known that the object of all my care
was my own father.
"Vice had not so depraved my heart as to excite in it an insensibility
of so much paternal affection, though so unworthily bestowed. I
presently promised to obey his commands in my return home with him, as
soon as he was able to travel, which indeed he was in a very few days,
by the assistance of that excellent surgeon who had undertaken his
cure.
"The day preceding my father's journey (before which time I scarce
ever left him), I went to take my leave of some of my most intimate
acquaintance, particularly of Mr Watson, who dissuaded me from burying
myself, as he called it, out of a simple compliance with the fond
desires of a foolish old fellow. Such sollicitations, however, had no
effect, and I once more saw my own home. My father now greatly
sollicited me to think of marriage; but my inclinations were utterly
averse to any such thoughts. I had tasted of love already, and perhaps
you know the extravagant excesses of that most tender and most violent
passion."--Here the old gentleman paused, and looked earnestly at
Jones; whose countenance, within a minute's space, displayed the
extremities of both red and white. Upon which the old man, without
making any observations, renewed his narrative.
"Being now provided with all the necessaries of life, I betook myself
once again to study, and that with a more inordinate application than
I had ever done formerly. The books which now employed my time solely
were those, as well antient as modern, which treat of true philosophy,
a word which is by many thought to be the subject only of farce and
ridicule. I now read over the works of Aristotle and Plato, with the
rest of those inestimable treasures which antient Greece had
bequeathed to the world.
"These authors, though they instructed me in no science by which men
may promise to themselves to acquire the least riches or worldly
power, taught me, however, the art of despising the highest
acquisitions of both. They elevate the mind, and steel and harden it
against the capricious invasions of fortune. They not only instruct in
the knowledge of Wisdom, but confirm men in her habits, and
demonstrate plainly, that this must be our guide, if we propose ever
to arrive at the greatest worldly happiness, or to defend ourselves,
with any tolerable security, against the misery which everywhere
surrounds and invests us.
"To this I added another study, compared to which, all the philosophy
taught by the wisest heathens is little better than a dream, and is
indeed as full of vanity as the silliest jester ever pleased to
represent it. This is that Divine wisdom which is alone to be found in
the Holy Scriptures; for they impart to us the knowledge and assurance
of things much more worthy our attention than all which this world can
offer to our acceptance; of things which Heaven itself hath
condescended to reveal to us, and to the smallest knowledge of which
the highest human wit unassisted could never ascend. I began now to
think all the time I had spent with the best heathen writers was
little more than labour lost: for, however pleasant and delightful
their lessons may be, or however adequate to the right regulation of
our conduct with respect to this world only; yet, when compared with
the glory revealed in Scripture, their highest documents will appear
as trifling, and of as little consequence, as the rules by which
children regulate their childish little games and pastime. True it is,
that philosophy makes us wiser, but Christianity makes us better men.
Philosophy elevates and steels the mind, Christianity softens and
sweetens it. The former makes us the objects of human admiration, the
latter of Divine love. That insures us a temporal, but this an eternal
happiness.--But I am afraid I tire you with my rhapsody."
"Not at all," cries Partridge; "Lud forbid we should be tired with
good things!"
"I had spent," continued the stranger, "about four years in the most
delightful manner to myself, totally given up to contemplation, and
entirely unembarrassed with the affairs of the world, when I lost the
best of fathers, and one whom I so entirely loved, that my grief at
his loss exceeds all description. I now abandoned my books, and gave
myself up for a whole month to the effects of melancholy and despair.
Time, however, the best physician of the mind, at length brought me
relief."--"Ay, ay; _Tempus edax rerum_" said Partridge.--"I then,"
continued the stranger, "betook myself again to my former studies,
which I may say perfected my cure; for philosophy and religion may be
called the exercises of the mind, and when this is disordered, they
are as wholesome as exercise can be to a distempered body. They do
indeed produce similar effects with exercise; for they strengthen and
confirm the mind, till man becomes, in the noble strain of Horace--
_Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus,
Externi ne quid valeat per laeve morari;
In quem manca ruit semper Fortuna._"[*]
[*] Firm in himself, who on himself relies,
Polish'd and round, who runs his proper course
And breaks misfortunes with superior force.--MR FRANCIS.
Here Jones smiled at some conceit which intruded itself into his
imagination; but the stranger, I believe, perceived it not, and
proceeded thus:--
"My circumstances were now greatly altered by the death of that best
of men; for my brother, who was now become master of the house,
differed so widely from me in his inclinations, and our pursuits in
life had been so very various, that we were the worst of company to
each other: but what made our living together still more disagreeable,
was the little harmony which could subsist between the few who
resorted to me, and the numerous train of sportsmen who often attended
my brother from the field to the table; for such fellows, besides the
noise and nonsense with which they persecute the ears of sober men,
endeavour always to attack them with affront and contempt. This was so
much the case, that neither I myself, nor my friends, could ever sit
down to a meal with them without being treated with derision, because
we were unacquainted with the phrases of sportsmen. For men of true
learning, and almost universal knowledge, always compassionate the
ignorance of others; but fellows who excel in some little, low,
contemptible art, are always certain to despise those who are
unacquainted with that art.
"In short, we soon separated, and I went, by the advice of a
physician, to drink the Bath waters; for my violent affliction, added
to a sedentary life, had thrown me into a kind of paralytic disorder,
for which those waters are accounted an almost _certain_ cure. The
second day after my arrival, as I was walking by the river, the sun
shone so intensely hot (though it was early in the year), that I
retired to the shelter of some willows, and sat down by the river
side. Here I had not been seated long before I heard a person on the
other side of the willows sighing and bemoaning himself bitterly. On a
sudden, having uttered a most impious oath, he cried, `I am resolved
to bear it no longer,' and directly threw himself into the water. I
immediately started, and ran towards the place, calling at the same
time as loudly as I could for assistance. An angler happened luckily
to be a-fishing a little below me, though some very high sedge had hid
him from my sight. He immediately came up, and both of us together,
not without some hazard of our lives, drew the body to the shore. At
first we perceived no sign of life remaining; but having held the body
up by the heels (for we soon had assistance enough), it discharged a
vast quantity of water at the mouth, and at length began to discover
some symptoms of breathing, and a little afterwards to move both its
hands and its legs.
"An apothecary, who happened to be present among others, advised that
the body, which seemed now to have pretty well emptied itself of
water, and which began to have many convulsive motions, should be
directly taken up, and carried into a warm bed. This was accordingly
performed, the apothecary and myself attending.
"As we were going towards an inn, for we knew not the man's lodgings,
luckily a woman met us, who, after some violent screaming, told us
that the gentleman lodged at her house.
"When I had seen the man safely deposited there, I left him to the
care of the apothecary; who, I suppose, used all the right methods
with him, for the next morning I heard he had perfectly recovered his
senses.
"I then went to visit him, intending to search out, as well as I
could, the cause of his having attempted so desperate an act, and to
prevent, as far as I was able, his pursuing such wicked intentions for
the future. I was no sooner admitted into his chamber, than we both
instantly knew each other; for who should this person be but my good
friend Mr Watson! Here I will not trouble you with what past at our
first interview; for I would avoid prolixity as much as
possible."--"Pray let us hear all," cries Partridge; "I want mightily
to know what brought him to Bath."
"You shall hear everything material," answered the stranger; and then
proceeded to relate what we shall proceed to write, after we have
given a short breathing time to both ourselves and the reader.
Chapter xiv.
In which the Man of the Hill concludes his history.
"Mr Watson," continued the stranger, "very freely acquainted me, that
the unhappy situation of his circumstances, occasioned by a tide of
ill luck, had in a manner forced him to a resolution of destroying
himself.
"I now began to argue very seriously with him, in opposition to this
heathenish, or indeed diabolical, principle of the lawfulness of
self-murder; and said everything which occurred to me on the subject;
but, to my great concern, it seemed to have very little effect on him.
He seemed not at all to repent of what he had done, and gave me reason
to fear he would soon make a second attempt of the like horrible kind.
"When I had finished my discourse, instead of endeavouring to answer
my arguments, he looked me stedfastly in the face, and with a smile
said, `You are strangely altered, my good friend, since I remember
you. I question whether any of our bishops could make a better
argument against suicide than you have entertained me with; but unless
you can find somebody who will lend me a cool hundred, I must either
hang, or drown, or starve; and, in my opinion, the last death is the
most terrible of the three.'
"I answered him very gravely that I was indeed altered since I had
seen him last. That I had found leisure to look into my follies and to
repent of them. I then advised him to pursue the same steps; and at
last concluded with an assurance that I myself would lend him a
hundred pound, if it would be of any service to his affairs, and he
would not put it into the power of a die to deprive him of it.
"Mr Watson, who seemed almost composed in slumber by the former part
of my discourse, was roused by the latter. He seized my hand eagerly,
gave me a thousand thanks, and declared I was a friend indeed; adding
that he hoped I had a better opinion of him than to imagine he had
profited so little by experience, as to put any confidence in those
damned dice which had so often deceived him. `No, no,' cries he; `let
me but once handsomely be set up again, and if ever Fortune makes a
broken merchant of me afterwards, I will forgive her.'
"I very well understood the language of setting up, and broken
merchant. I therefore said to him, with a very grave face, Mr Watson,
you must endeavour to find out some business or employment, by which
you may procure yourself a livelihood; and I promise you, could I see
any probability of being repaid hereafter, I would advance a much
larger sum than what you have mentioned, to equip you in any fair and
honourable calling; but as to gaming, besides the baseness and
wickedness of making it a profession, you are really, to my own
knowledge, unfit for it, and it will end in your certain ruin.
"`Why now, that's strange,' answered he; `neither you, nor any of my
friends, would ever allow me to know anything of the matter, and yet I
believe I _am_ as good a hand at every game as any of you all; and I
heartily wish I was to play with you only for your whole fortune: I
should desire no better sport, and I would let you name your game into
the bargain: but come, my dear boy, have you the hundred in your
pocket?"
"I answered I had only a bill for £50, which I delivered him, and
promised to bring him the rest next morning; and after giving him a
little more advice, took my leave.
"I was indeed better than my word; for I returned to him that very
afternoon. When I entered the room, I found him sitting up in his bed
at cards with a notorious gamester. This sight, you will imagine,
shocked me not a little; to which I may add the mortification of
seeing my bill delivered by him to his antagonist, and thirty guineas
only given in exchange for it.
"The other gamester presently quitted the room, and then Watson
declared he was ashamed to see me; `but,' says he, `I find luck runs
so damnably against me, that I will resolve to leave off play for
ever. I have thought of the kind proposal you made me ever since, and
I promise you there shall be no fault in me, if I do not put it in
execution.'
"Though I had no great faith in his promises, I produced him the
remainder of the hundred in consequence of my own; for which he gave
me a note, which was all I ever expected to see in return for my
money.
"We were prevented from any further discourse at present by the
arrival of the apothecary; who, with much joy in his countenance, and
without even asking his patient how he did, proclaimed there was great
news arrived in a letter to himself, which he said would shortly be
public, `That the Duke of Monmouth was landed in the west with a vast
army of Dutch; and that another vast fleet hovered over the coast of
Norfolk, and was to make a descent there, in order to favour the
duke's enterprize with a diversion on that side.'
"This apothecary was one of the greatest politicians of his time. He
was more delighted with the most paultry packet, than with the best
patient, and the highest joy he was capable of, he received from
having a piece of news in his possession an hour or two sooner than
any other person in the town. His advices, however, were seldom
authentic; for he would swallow almost anything as a truth--a humour
which many made use of to impose upon him.
"Thus it happened with what he at present communicated; for it was
known within a short time afterwards that the duke was really landed,
but that his army consisted only of a few attendants; and as to the
diversion in Norfolk, it was entirely false.
"The apothecary staid no longer in the room than while he acquainted
us with his news; and then, without saying a syllable to his patient
on any other subject, departed to spread his advices all over the
town.
"Events of this nature in the public are generally apt to eclipse all
private concerns. Our discourse therefore now became entirely
political.[*] For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously
affected with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so
visibly exposed under a Popish prince, and thought the apprehension of
it alone sufficient to justify that insurrection; for no real security
can ever be found against the persecuting spirit of Popery, when armed
with power, except the depriving it of that power, as woeful
experience presently showed. You know how King James behaved after
getting the better of this attempt; how little he valued either his
royal word, or coronation oath, or the liberties and rights of his
people. But all had not the sense to foresee this at first; and
therefore the Duke of Monmouth was weakly supported; yet all could
feel when the evil came upon them; and therefore all united, at last,
to drive out that king, against whose exclusion a great party among us
had so warmly contended during the reign of his brother, and for whom
they now fought with such zeal and affection."
"What you say," interrupted Jones, "is very true; and it has often
struck me, as the most wonderful thing I ever read of in history, that
so soon after this convincing experience which brought our whole
nation to join so unanimously in expelling King James, for the
preservation of our religion and liberties, there should be a party
among us mad enough to desire the placing his family again on the
throne." "You are not in earnest!" answered the old man; "there can be
no such party. As bad an opinion as I have of mankind, I cannot
believe them infatuated to such a degree. There may be some hot-headed
Papists led by their priests to engage in this desperate cause, and
think it a holy war; but that Protestants, that are members of the
Church of England, should be such apostates, such _felos de se_, I
cannot believe it; no, no, young man, unacquainted as I am with what
has past in the world for these last thirty years, I cannot be so
imposed upon as to credit so foolish a tale; but I see you have a mind
to sport with my ignorance."--"Can it be possible," replied Jones,
"that you have lived so much out of the world as not to know that
during that time there have been two rebellions in favour of the son
of King James, one of which is now actually raging in the very heart
of the kingdom." At these words the old gentleman started up, and in a
most solemn tone of voice, conjured Jones by his Maker to tell him if
what he said was really true; which the other as solemnly affirming,
he walked several turns about the room in a profound silence, then
cried, then laughed, and at last fell down on his knees, and blessed
God, in a loud thanksgiving prayer, for having delivered him from all
society with human nature, which could be capable of such monstrous
extravagances. After which, being reminded by Jones that he had broke
off his story, he resumed it again in this manner:--
"As mankind, in the days I was speaking of, was not yet arrived at
that pitch of madness which I find they are capable of now, and which,
to be sure, I have only escaped by living alone, and at a distance
from the contagion, there was a considerable rising in favour of
Monmouth; and my principles strongly inclining me to take the same
part, I determined to join him; and Mr Watson, from different motives
concurring in the same resolution (for the spirit of a gamester will
carry a man as far upon such an occasion as the spirit of patriotism),
we soon provided ourselves with all necessaries, and went to the duke
at Bridgewater.
"The unfortunate event of this enterprize, you are, I conclude, as
well acquainted with as myself. I escaped, together with Mr Watson,
from the battle at Sedgemore, in which action I received a slight
wound. We rode near forty miles together on the Exeter road, and then
abandoning our horses, scrambled as well as we could through the
fields and bye-roads, till we arrived at a little wild hut on a
common, where a poor old woman took all the care of us she could, and
dressed my wound with salve, which quickly healed it."
"Pray, sir, where was the wound?" says Partridge. The stranger
satisfied him it was in his arm, and then continued his narrative.
"Here, sir," said he, "Mr Watson left me the next morning, in order,
as he pretended, to get us some provision from the town of Collumpton;
but--can I relate it, or can you believe it?--this Mr Watson, this
friend, this base, barbarous, treacherous villain, betrayed me to a
party of horse belonging to King James, and at his return delivered me
into their hands.
"The soldiers, being six in number, had now seized me, and were
conducting me to Taunton gaol; but neither my present situation, nor
the apprehensions of what might happen to me, were half so irksome to
my mind as the company of my false friend, who, having surrendered
himself, was likewise considered as a prisoner, though he was better
treated, as being to make his peace at my expense. He at first
endeavoured to excuse his treachery; but when he received nothing but
scorn and upbraiding from me, he soon changed his note, abused me as
the most atrocious and malicious rebel, and laid all his own guilt to
my charge, who, as he declared, had solicited, and even threatened
him, to make him take up arms against his gracious as well as lawful
sovereign.
"This false evidence (for in reality he had been much the forwarder of
the two) stung me to the quick, and raised an indignation scarce
conceivable by those who have not felt it. However, fortune at length
took pity on me; for as we were got a little beyond Wellington, in a
narrow lane, my guards received a false alarm, that near fifty of the
enemy were at hand; upon which they shifted for themselves, and left
me and my betrayer to do the same. That villain immediately ran from
me, and I am glad he did, or I should have certainly endeavoured,
though I had no arms, to have executed vengeance on his baseness.
"I was now once more at liberty; and immediately withdrawing from the
highway into the fields, I travelled on, scarce knowing which way I
went, and making it my chief care to avoid all public roads and all
towns--nay, even the most homely houses; for I imagined every human
creature whom I saw desirous of betraying me.
"At last, after rambling several days about the country, during which
the fields afforded me the same bed and the same food which nature
bestows on our savage brothers of the creation, I at length arrived at
this place, where the solitude and wildness of the country invited me
to fix my abode. The first person with whom I took up my habitation
was the mother of this old woman, with whom I remained concealed till
the news of the glorious revolution put an end to all my apprehensions
of danger, and gave me an opportunity of once more visiting my own
home, and of enquiring a little into my affairs, which I soon settled
as agreeably to my brother as to myself; having resigned everything to
him, for which he paid me the sum of a thousand pounds, and settled on
me an annuity for life.
"His behaviour in this last instance, as in all others, was selfish
and ungenerous. I could not look on him as my friend, nor indeed did
he desire that I should; so I presently took my leave of him, as well
as of my other acquaintance; and from that day to this, my history is
little better than a blank."
"And is it possible, sir," said Jones, "that you can have resided here
from that day to this?"--"O no, sir," answered the gentleman; "I have
been a great traveller, and there are few parts of Europe with which I
am not acquainted." "I have not, sir," cried Jones, "the assurance to
ask it of you now; indeed it would be cruel, after so much breath as
you have already spent: but you will give me leave to wish for some
further opportunity of hearing the excellent observations which a man
of your sense and knowledge of the world must have made in so long a
course of travels."--"Indeed, young gentleman," answered the stranger,
"I will endeavour to satisfy your curiosity on this head likewise, as
far as I am able." Jones attempted fresh apologies, but was prevented;
and while he and Partridge sat with greedy and impatient ears, the
stranger proceeded as in the next chapter.
[*] _The rest of this paragraph and the two following paragraphs
in the first edition were as follows_:
"For my own part, I had been for some time very seriously affected
with the danger to which the Protestant religion was so visibly
exposed, that nothing but the immediate interposition of Providence
seemed capable of preserving it; for King James had indeed declared
war against the Protestant cause. He had brought known papists into
the army and attempted to bring them into the Church and into the
University. Popish priests swarmed through the nation, appeared
publicly in their habits, and boasted that they should shortly walk
in procession through the streets. Our own clergy were forbid to
preach against popery, and bishops were ordered to supend those who
did; and to do the business at once an illegal ecclesiastical
commission was erected, little inferior to an inquisition, of which,
probably, it was intended to be the ringleader. Thus, as our duty to
the king can never be called more than our second duty, he had
discharged us from this by making it incompatible with our
preserving the first, which is surely to heaven. Besides this, he
had dissolved his subjects from their allegiance by breaking his
Coronation Oath, to which their allegiance is annexed; for he had
imprisoned bishops because they would not give up their religion,
and turned out judges because they would not absolutely surrender
the law into his hands; nay, he seized this himself, and when he
claimed a dispensing power, he declared himself, in fact, as
absolute as any tyrant ever was or can be. I have recapitulated
these matters in full lest some of them should have been omitted in
history; and I think nothing less than such provocations as I have
here mentioned, nothing less than certain and imminent danger to
their religion and liberties, can justify or even mitigate the
dreadful sin of rebellion in any people."
"I promise you, sir," says Jones, "all these facts, and more, I have
read in history, but I will tell you a fact which is not yet
recorded and of which I suppose you are ignorant. There is actually
now a rebellion on foot in this kingdom in favour of the son of that
very King James, a professed papist, more bigoted, if possible, than
his father, and this carried on by Protestants against a king who
hath never in one single instance made the least invasion on our
liberties."
"Prodigious indeed!" answered the stranger. "You tell me what would
be incredible of a nation which did not deserve the character that
Virgil gives of a woman, _varium et mutabile semper_. Surely this is
to be unworthy of the care which Providence seems to have taken of
us in the preservation of our religion against the powerful designs
and constant machinations of Popery, a preservation so strange and
unaccountable that I almost think we may appeal to it as to a
miracle for the proof of its holiness. Prodigious indeed! A
Protestant rebellion in favour of a popish prince! The folly of
mankind is as wonderful as their knavery--But to conclude my story:
I resolved to take arms in defence of my country, of my religion,
and my liberty, and Mr. Watson joined in the same resolution. We
soon provided ourselves with an necessaries and joined the Duke at
Bridgewater."
"The unfortunate event of this enterprise you are perhaps better
acquainted with than myself. I escaped together with Mr. Watson from
the battle at Sedgemore,...
Chapter xv.
A brief history of Europe; and a curious discourse between Mr Jones
and the Man of the Hill.
"In Italy the landlords are very silent. In France they are more
talkative, but yet civil. In Germany and Holland they are generally
very impertinent. And as for their honesty, I believe it is pretty
equal in all those countries. The _laquais à louange_ are sure to lose
no opportunity of cheating you; and as for the postilions, I think
they are pretty much alike all the world over. These, sir, are the
observations on men which I made in my travels; for these were the
only men I ever conversed with. My design, when I went abroad, was to
divert myself by seeing the wondrous variety of prospects, beasts,
birds, fishes, insects, and vegetables, with which God has been
pleased to enrich the several parts of this globe; a variety which, as
it must give great pleasure to a contemplative beholder, so doth it
admirably display the power, and wisdom, and goodness of the Creator.
Indeed, to say the truth, there is but one work in his whole creation
that doth him any dishonour, and with that I have long since avoided
holding any conversation."
"You will pardon me," cries Jones; "but I have always imagined that
there is in this very work you mention as great variety as in all the
rest; for, besides the difference of inclination, customs and climates
have, I am told, introduced the utmost diversity into human nature."
"Very little indeed," answered the other: "those who travel in order
to acquaint themselves with the different manners of men might spare
themselves much pains by going to a carnival at Venice; for there they
will see at once all which they can discover in the several courts of
Europe. The same hypocrisy, the same fraud; in short, the same follies
and vices dressed in different habits. In Spain, these are equipped
with much gravity; and in Italy, with vast splendor. In France, a
knave is dressed like a fop; and in the northern countries, like a
sloven. But human nature is everywhere the same, everywhere the object
of detestation and scorn.
"As for my own part, I past through all these nations as you perhaps
may have done through a croud at a shew-jostling to get by them,
holding my nose with one hand, and defending my pockets with the
other, without speaking a word to any of them, while I was pressing on
to see what I wanted to see; which, however entertaining it might be
in itself, scarce made me amends for the trouble the company gave me."
"Did not you find some of the nations among which you travelled less
troublesome to you than others?" said Jones. "O yes," replied the old
man: "the Turks were much more tolerable to me than the Christians;
for they are men of profound taciturnity, and never disturb a stranger
with questions. Now and then indeed they bestow a short curse upon
him, or spit in his face as he walks the streets, but then they have
done with him; and a man may live an age in their country without
hearing a dozen words from them. But of all the people I ever saw,
heaven defend me from the French! With their damned prate and
civilities, and doing the honour of their nation to strangers (as they
are pleased to call it), but indeed setting forth their own vanity;
they are so troublesome, that I had infinitely rather pass my life
with the Hottentots than set my foot in Paris again. They are a nasty
people, but their nastiness is mostly without; whereas, in France, and
some other nations that I won't name, it is all within, and makes them
stink much more to my reason than that of Hottentots does to my nose.
"Thus, sir, I have ended the history of my life; for as to all that
series of years during which I have lived retired here, it affords no
variety to entertain you, and may be almost considered as one
day.[*] The retirement has been so compleat, that I could hardly have
enjoyed a more absolute solitude in the deserts of the Thebais than
here in the midst of this populous kingdom. As I have no estate, I am
plagued with no tenants or stewards: my annuity is paid me pretty
regularly, as indeed it ought to be; for it is much less than what I
might have expected in return for what I gave up. Visits I admit none;
and the old woman who keeps my house knows that her place entirely
depends upon her saving me all the trouble of buying the things that I
want, keeping off all sollicitation or business from me, and holding
her tongue whenever I am within hearing. As my walks are all by night,
I am pretty secure in this wild unfrequented place from meeting any
company. Some few persons I have met by chance, and sent them home
heartily frighted, as from the oddness of my dress and figure they
took me for a ghost or a hobgoblin. But what has happened to-night
shows that even here I cannot be safe from the villany of men; for
without your assistance I had not only been robbed, but very probably
murdered."
[*] the rest of this paragraph is omitted in the third edition
Jones thanked the stranger for the trouble he had taken in relating
his story, and then expressed some wonder how he could possibly endure
a life of such solitude; "in which," says he, "you may well complain
of the want of variety. Indeed I am astonished how you have filled up,
or rather killed, so much of your time."
"I am not at all surprized," answered the other, "that to one whose
affections and thoughts are fixed on the world my hours should appear
to have wanted employment in this place: but there is one single act,
for which the whole life of man is infinitely too short: what time can
suffice for the contemplation and worship of that glorious, immortal,
and eternal Being, among the works of whose stupendous creation not
only this globe, but even those numberless luminaries which we may
here behold spangling all the sky, though they should many of them be
suns lighting different systems of worlds, may possibly appear but as
a few atoms opposed to the whole earth which we inhabit? Can a man who
by divine meditations is admitted as it were into the conversation of
this ineffable, incomprehensible Majesty, think days, or years, or
ages, too long for the continuance of so ravishing an honour? Shall
the trifling amusements, the palling pleasures, the silly business of
the world, roll away our hours too swiftly from us; and shall the pace
of time seem sluggish to a mind exercised in studies so high, so
important, and so glorious? As no time is sufficient, so no place is
improper, for this great concern. On what object can we cast our eyes
which may not inspire us with ideas of his power, of his wisdom, and
of his goodness? It is not necessary that the rising sun should dart
his fiery glories over the eastern horizon; nor that the boisterous
winds should rush from their caverns, and shake the lofty forest; nor
that the opening clouds should pour their deluges on the plains: it is
not necessary, I say, that any of these should proclaim his majesty:
there is not an insect, not a vegetable, of so low an order in the
creation as not to be honoured with bearing marks of the attributes of
its great Creator; marks not only of his power, but of his wisdom and
goodness. Man alone, the king of this globe, the last and greatest
work of the Supreme Being, below the sun; man alone hath basely
dishonoured his own nature; and by dishonesty, cruelty, ingratitude,
and treachery, hath called his Maker's goodness in question, by
puzzling us to account how a benevolent being should form so foolish
and so vile an animal. Yet this is the being from whose conversation
you think, I suppose, that I have been unfortunately restrained, and
without whose blessed society, life, in your opinion, must be tedious
and insipid."
"In the former part of what you said," replied Jones, "I most heartily
and readily concur; but I believe, as well as hope, that the
abhorrence which you express for mankind in the conclusion, is much
too general. Indeed, you here fall into an error, which in my little
experience I have observed to be a very common one, by taking the
character of mankind from the worst and basest among them; whereas,
indeed, as an excellent writer observes, nothing should be esteemed as
characteristical of a species, but what is to be found among the best
and most perfect individuals of that species. This error, I believe,
is generally committed by those who from want of proper caution in the
choice of their friends and acquaintance, have suffered injuries from
bad and worthless men; two or three instances of which are very
unjustly charged on all human nature."
"I think I had experience enough of it," answered the other: "my first
mistress and my first friend betrayed me in the basest manner, and in
matters which threatened to be of the worst of consequences--even to
bring me to a shameful death."
"But you will pardon me," cries Jones, "if I desire you to reflect who
that mistress and who that friend were. What better, my good sir,
could be expected in love derived from the stews, or in friendship
first produced and nourished at the gaming-table? To take the
characters of women from the former instance, or of men from the
latter, would be as unjust as to assert that air is a nauseous and
unwholesome element, because we find it so in a jakes. I have lived
but a short time in the world, and yet have known men worthy of the
highest friendship, and women of the highest love."
"Alas! young man," answered the stranger, "you have lived, you
confess, but a very short time in the world: I was somewhat older than
you when I was of the same opinion."
"You might have remained so still," replies Jones, "if you had not
been unfortunate, I will venture to say incautious, in the placing
your affections. If there was, indeed, much more wickedness in the
world than there is, it would not prove such general assertions
against human nature, since much of this arrives by mere accident, and
many a man who commits evil is not totally bad and corrupt in his
heart. In truth, none seem to have any title to assert human nature to
be necessarily and universally evil, but those whose own minds afford
them one instance of this natural depravity; which is not, I am
convinced, your case."
"And such," said the stranger, "will be always the most backward to
assert any such thing. Knaves will no more endeavour to persuade us of
the baseness of mankind, than a highwayman will inform you that there
are thieves on the road. This would, indeed, be a method to put you on
your guard, and to defeat their own purposes. For which reason, though
knaves, as I remember, are very apt to abuse particular persons, yet
they never cast any reflection on human nature in general." The old
gentleman spoke this so warmly, that as Jones despaired of making a
convert, and was unwilling to offend, he returned no answer.
The day now began to send forth its first streams of light, when Jones
made an apology to the stranger for having staid so long, and perhaps
detained him from his rest. The stranger answered, "He never wanted
rest less than at present; for that day and night were indifferent
seasons to him; and that he commonly made use of the former for the
time of his repose and of the latter for his walks and lucubrations.
However," said he, "it is now a most lovely morning, and if you can
bear any longer to be without your own rest or food, I will gladly
entertain you with the sight of some very fine prospects which I
believe you have not yet seen."
Jones very readily embraced this offer, and they immediately set
forward together from the cottage. As for Partridge, he had fallen
into a profound repose just as the stranger had finished his story;
for his curiosity was satisfied, and the subsequent discourse was not
forcible enough in its operation to conjure down the charms of sleep.
Jones therefore left him to enjoy his nap; and as the reader may
perhaps be at this season glad of the same favour, we will here put an
end to the eighth book of our history.
BOOK IX.
CONTAINING TWELVE HOURS.
Chapter i.
Of those who lawfully may, and of those who may not, write such
histories as this.
Among other good uses for which I have thought proper to institute
these several introductory chapters, I have considered them as a kind
of mark or stamp, which may hereafter enable a very indifferent reader
to distinguish what is true and genuine in this historic kind of
writing, from what is false and counterfeit. Indeed, it seems likely
that some such mark may shortly become necessary, since the favourable
reception which two or three authors have lately procured for their
works of this nature from the public, will probably serve as an
encouragement to many others to undertake the like. Thus a swarm of
foolish novels and monstrous romances will be produced, either to the
great impoverishing of booksellers, or to the great loss of time and
depravation of morals in the reader; nay, often to the spreading of
scandal and calumny, and to the prejudice of the characters of many
worthy and honest people.
I question not but the ingenious author of the Spectator was
principally induced to prefix Greek and Latin mottos to every paper,
from the same consideration of guarding against the pursuit of those
scribblers, who having no talents of a writer but what is taught by
the writing-master, are yet nowise afraid nor ashamed to assume the
same titles with the greatest genius, than their good brother in the
fable was of braying in the lion's skin.
By the device therefore of his motto, it became impracticable for any
man to presume to imitate the Spectators, without understanding at
least one sentence in the learned languages. In the same manner I have
now secured myself from the imitation of those who are utterly
incapable of any degree of reflection, and whose learning is not equal
to an essay.
I would not be here understood to insinuate, that the greatest merit
of such historical productions can ever lie in these introductory
chapters; but, in fact, those parts which contain mere narrative only,
afford much more encouragement to the pen of an imitator, than those
which are composed of observation and reflection. Here I mean such
imitators as Rowe was of Shakespear, or as Horace hints some of the
Romans were of Cato, by bare feet and sour faces.
To invent good stories, and to tell them well, are possibly very rare
talents, and yet I have observed few persons who have scrupled to aim
at both: and if we examine the romances and novels with which the
world abounds, I think we may fairly conclude, that most of the
authors would not have attempted to show their teeth (if the
expression may be allowed me) in any other way of writing; nor could
indeed have strung together a dozen sentences on any other subject
whatever.
_Scribimus indocti doctique passim_,[*]
[*] --Each desperate blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the trade of every living wight.--FRANCIS.
may be more truly said of the historian and biographer, than of any
other species of writing; for all the arts and sciences (even
criticism itself) require some little degree of learning and
knowledge. Poetry, indeed, may perhaps be thought an exception; but
then it demands numbers, or something like numbers: whereas, to the
composition of novels and romances, nothing is necessary but paper,
pens, and ink, with the manual capacity of using them. This, I
conceive, their productions show to be the opinion of the authors
themselves: and this must be the opinion of their readers, if indeed
there be any such.
Hence we are to derive that universal contempt which the world, who
always denominate the whole from the majority, have cast on all
historical writers who do not draw their materials from records. And
it is the apprehension of this contempt that hath made us so
cautiously avoid the term romance, a name with which we might
otherwise have been well enough contented. Though, as we have good
authority for all our characters, no less indeed than the vast
authentic doomsday-book of nature, as is elsewhere hinted, our labours
have sufficient title to the name of history. Certainly they deserve
some distinction from those works, which one of the wittiest of men
regarded only as proceeding from a _pruritus_, or indeed rather from a
looseness of the brain.
But besides the dishonour which is thus cast on one of the most useful
as well as entertaining of all kinds of writing, there is just reason
to apprehend, that by encouraging such authors we shall propagate much
dishonour of another kind; I mean to the characters of many good and
valuable members of society; for the dullest writers, no more than the
dullest companions, are always inoffensive. They have both enough of
language to be indecent and abusive. And surely if the opinion just
above cited be true, we cannot wonder that works so nastily derived
should be nasty themselves, or have a tendency to make others so.
To prevent therefore, for the future, such intemperate abuses of
leisure, of letters, and of the liberty of the press, especially as
the world seems at present to be more than usually threatened with
them, I shall here venture to mention some qualifications, every one
of which are in a pretty high degree necessary to this order of
historians.
The first is, genius, without a full vein of which no study, says
Horace, can avail us. By genius I would understand that power or
rather those powers of the mind, which are capable of penetrating into
all things within our reach and knowledge, and of distinguishing their
essential differences. These are no other than invention and judgment;
and they are both called by the collective name of genius, as they are
of those gifts of nature which we bring with us into the world.
Concerning each of which many seem to have fallen into very great
errors; for by invention, I believe, is generally understood a
creative faculty, which would indeed prove most romance writers to
have the highest pretensions to it; whereas by invention is really
meant no more (and so the word signifies) than discovery, or finding
out; or to explain it at large, a quick and sagacious penetration into
the true essence of all the objects of our contemplation. This, I
think, can rarely exist without the concomitancy of judgment; for how
we can be said to have discovered the true essence of two things,
without discerning their difference, seems to me hard to conceive. Now
this last is the undisputed province of judgment, and yet some few men
of wit have agreed with all the dull fellows in the world in
representing these two to have been seldom or never the property of
one and the same person.
But though they should be so, they are not sufficient for our purpose,
without a good share of learning; for which I could again cite the
authority of Horace, and of many others, if any was necessary to prove
that tools are of no service to a workman, when they are not sharpened
by art, or when he wants rules to direct him in his work, or hath no
matter to work upon. All these uses are supplied by learning; for
nature can only furnish us with capacity; or, as I have chose to
illustrate it, with the tools of our profession; learning must fit
them for use, must direct them in it, and, lastly, must contribute
part at least of the materials. A competent knowledge of history and
of the belles-lettres is here absolutely necessary; and without this
share of knowledge at least, to affect the character of an historian,
is as vain as to endeavour at building a house without timber or
mortar, or brick or stone. Homer and Milton, who, though they added
the ornament of numbers to their works, were both historians of our
order, were masters of all the learning of their times.
Again, there is another sort of knowledge, beyond the power of
learning to bestow, and this is to be had by conversation. So
necessary is this to the understanding the characters of men, that
none are more ignorant of them than those learned pedants whose lives
have been entirely consumed in colleges, and among books; for however
exquisitely human nature may have been described by writers, the true
practical system can be learnt only in the world. Indeed the like
happens in every other kind of knowledge. Neither physic nor law are
to be practically known from books. Nay, the farmer, the planter, the
gardener, must perfect by experience what he hath acquired the
rudiments of by reading. How accurately soever the ingenious Mr Miller
may have described the plant, he himself would advise his disciple to
see it in the garden. As we must perceive, that after the nicest
strokes of a Shakespear or a Jonson, of a Wycherly or an Otway, some
touches of nature will escape the reader, which the judicious action
of a Garrick, of a Cibber, or a Clive,[*] can convey to him; so, on the
real stage, the character shows himself in a stronger and bolder light
than he can be described. And if this be the case in those fine and
nervous descriptions which great authors themselves have taken from
life, how much more strongly will it hold when the writer himself
takes his lines not from nature, but from books? Such characters are
only the faint copy of a copy, and can have neither the justness nor
spirit of an original.
[*] There is a peculiar propriety in mentioning this great actor,
and these two most justly celebrated actresses, in this place, as
they have all formed themselves on the study of nature only, and not
on the imitation of their predecessors. Hence they have been able to
excel all who have gone before them; a degree of merit which the
servile herd of imitators can never possibly arrive at.
Now this conversation in our historian must be universal, that is,
with all ranks and degrees of men; for the knowledge of what is called
high life will not instruct him in low; nor, _e converso_, will his
being acquainted with the inferior part of mankind teach him the
manners of the superior. And though it may be thought that the
knowledge of either may sufficiently enable him to describe at least
that in which he hath been conversant, yet he will even here fall
greatly short of perfection; for the follies of either rank do in
reality illustrate each other. For instance, the affectation of high
life appears more glaring and ridiculous from the simplicity of the
low; and again, the rudeness and barbarity of this latter, strikes
with much stronger ideas of absurdity, when contrasted with, and
opposed to, the politeness which controuls the former. Besides, to say
the truth, the manners of our historian will be improved by both these
conversations; for in the one he will easily find examples of
plainness, honesty, and sincerity; in the other of refinement,
elegance, and a liberality of spirit; which last quality I myself have
scarce ever seen in men of low birth and education.
Nor will all the qualities I have hitherto given my historian avail
him, unless he have what is generally meant by a good heart, and be
capable of feeling. The author who will make me weep, says Horace,
must first weep himself. In reality, no man can paint a distress well
which he doth not feel while he is painting it; nor do I doubt, but
that the most pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears.
In the same manner it is with the ridiculous. I am convinced I never
make my reader laugh heartily but where I have laughed before him;
unless it should happen at any time, that instead of laughing with me
he should be inclined to laugh at me. Perhaps this may have been the
case at some passages in this chapter, from which apprehension I will
here put an end to it.
Chapter ii.
Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed, which Mr Jones met with
in his walk with the Man of the Hill.
Aurora now first opened her casement, _Anglice_ the day began to
break, when Jones walked forth in company with the stranger, and
mounted Mazard Hill; of which they had no sooner gained the summit
than one of the most noble prospects in the world presented itself to
their view, and which we would likewise present to the reader, but for
two reasons: first, we despair of making those who have seen this
prospect admire our description; secondly, we very much doubt whether
those who have not seen it would understand it.
Jones stood for some minutes fixed in one posture, and directing his
eyes towards the south; upon which the old gentleman asked, What he
was looking at with so much attention? "Alas! sir," answered he with a
sigh, "I was endeavouring to trace out my own journey hither. Good
heavens! what a distance is Gloucester from us! What a vast track of
land must be between me and my own home!"--"Ay, ay, young gentleman,"
cries the other, "and by your sighing, from what you love better than
your own home, or I am mistaken. I perceive now the object of your
contemplation is not within your sight, and yet I fancy you have a
pleasure in looking that way." Jones answered with a smile, "I find,
old friend, you have not yet forgot the sensations of your youth. I
own my thoughts were employed as you have guessed."
They now walked to that part of the hill which looks to the
north-west, and which hangs over a vast and extensive wood. Here they
were no sooner arrived than they heard at a distance the most violent
screams of a woman, proceeding from the wood below them. Jones
listened a moment, and then, without saying a word to his companion
(for indeed the occasion seemed sufficiently pressing), ran, or rather
slid, down the hill, and, without the least apprehension or concern
for his own safety, made directly to the thicket, whence the sound had
issued.
He had not entered far into the wood before he beheld a most shocking
sight indeed, a woman stript half naked, under the hands of a ruffian,
who had put his garter round her neck, and was endeavouring to draw
her up to a tree. Jones asked no questions at this interval, but fell
instantly upon the villain, and made such good use of his trusty oaken
stick that he laid him sprawling on the ground before he could defend
himself, indeed almost before he knew he was attacked; nor did he
cease the prosecution of his blows till the woman herself begged him
to forbear, saying, she believed he had sufficiently done his
business.
The poor wretch then fell upon her knees to Jones, and gave him a
thousand thanks for her deliverance. He presently lifted her up, and
told her he was highly pleased with the extraordinary accident which
had sent him thither for her relief, where it was so improbable she
should find any; adding, that Heaven seemed to have designed him as
the happy instrument of her protection. "Nay," answered she, "I could
almost conceive you to be some good angel; and, to say the truth, you
look more like an angel than a man in my eye." Indeed he was a
charming figure; and if a very fine person, and a most comely set of
features, adorned with youth, health, strength, freshness, spirit, and
good-nature, can make a man resemble an angel, he certainly had that
resemblance.
The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the human-angelic
species: she seemed to be at least of the middle age, nor had her face
much appearance of beauty; but her cloaths being torn from all the
upper part of her body, her breasts, which were well formed and
extremely white, attracted the eyes of her deliverer, and for a few
moments they stood silent, and gazing at each other; till the ruffian
on the ground beginning to move, Jones took the garter which had been
intended for another purpose, and bound both his hands behind him. And
now, on contemplating his face, he discovered, greatly to his
surprize, and perhaps not a little to his satisfaction, this very
person to be no other than ensign Northerton. Nor had the ensign
forgotten his former antagonist, whom he knew the moment he came to
himself. His surprize was equal to that of Jones; but I conceive his
pleasure was rather less on this occasion.
Jones helped Northerton upon his legs, and then looking him stedfastly
in the face, "I fancy, sir," said he, "you did not expect to meet me
any more in this world, and I confess I had as little expectation to
find you here. However, fortune, I see, hath brought us once more
together, and hath given me satisfaction for the injury I have
received, even without my own knowledge."
"It is very much like a man of honour, indeed," answered Northerton,
"to take satisfaction by knocking a man down behind his back. Neither
am I capable of giving you satisfaction here, as I have no sword; but
if you dare behave like a gentleman, let us go where I can furnish
myself with one, and I will do by you as a man of honour ought."
"Doth it become such a villain as you are," cries Jones, "to
contaminate the name of honour by assuming it? But I shall waste no
time in discourse with you. Justice requires satisfaction of you now,
and shall have it." Then turning to the woman, he asked her, if she
was near her home; or if not, whether she was acquainted with any
house in the neighbourhood, where she might procure herself some
decent cloaths, in order to proceed to a justice of the peace.
She answered she was an entire stranger in that part of the world.
Jones then recollecting himself, said, he had a friend near who would
direct them; indeed, he wondered at his not following; but, in fact,
the good Man of the Hill, when our heroe departed, sat himself down on
the brow, where, though he had a gun in his hand, he with great
patience and unconcern had attended the issue.
Jones then stepping without the wood, perceived the old man sitting as
we have just described him; he presently exerted his utmost agility,
and with surprizing expedition ascended the hill.
The old man advised him to carry the woman to Upton, which, he said,
was the nearest town, and there he would be sure of furnishing her
with all manner of conveniencies. Jones having received his direction
to the place, took his leave of the Man of the Hill, and, desiring him
to direct Partridge the same way, returned hastily to the wood.
Our heroe, at his departure to make this enquiry of his friend, had
considered, that as the ruffian's hands were tied behind him, he was
incapable of executing any wicked purposes on the poor woman. Besides,
he knew he should not be beyond the reach of her voice, and could
return soon enough to prevent any mischief. He had moreover declared
to the villain, that if he attempted the least insult, he would be
himself immediately the executioner of vengeance on him. But Jones
unluckily forgot, that though the hands of Northerton were tied, his
legs were at liberty; nor did he lay the least injunction on the
prisoner that he should not make what use of these he pleased.
Northerton therefore having given no parole of that kind, thought he
might without any breach of honour depart; not being obliged, as he
imagined, by any rules, to wait for a formal discharge. He therefore
took up his legs, which were at liberty, and walked off through the
wood, which favoured his retreat; nor did the woman, whose eyes were
perhaps rather turned toward her deliverer, once think of his escape,
or give herself any concern or trouble to prevent it.
Jones therefore, at his return, found the woman alone. He would have
spent some time in searching for Northerton, but she would not permit
him; earnestly entreating that he would accompany her to the town
whither they had been directed. "As to the fellow's escape," said she,
"it gives me no uneasiness; for philosophy and Christianity both
preach up forgiveness of injuries. But for you, sir, I am concerned at
the trouble I give you; nay, indeed, my nakedness may well make me
ashamed to look you in the face; and if it was not for the sake of
your protection, I should wish to go alone."
Jones offered her his coat; but, I know not for what reason, she
absolutely refused the most earnest solicitations to accept it. He
then begged her to forget both the causes of her confusion. "With
regard to the former," says he, "I have done no more than my duty in
protecting you; and as for the latter, I will entirely remove it, by
walking before you all the way; for I would not have my eyes offend
you, and I could not answer for my power of resisting the attractive
charms of so much beauty."
Thus our heroe and the redeemed lady walked in the same manner as
Orpheus and Eurydice marched heretofore; but though I cannot believe
that Jones was designedly tempted by his fair one to look behind him,
yet as she frequently wanted his assistance to help her over stiles,
and had besides many trips and other accidents, he was often obliged
to turn about. However, he had better fortune than what attended poor
Orpheus, for he brought his companion, or rather follower, safe into
the famous town of Upton.
Chapter iii.
The arrival of Mr Jones with his lady at the inn; with a very full
description of the battle of Upton.
Though the reader, we doubt not, is very eager to know who this lady
was, and how she fell into the hands of Mr Northerton, we must beg him
to suspend his curiosity for a short time, as we are obliged, for some
very good reasons which hereafter perhaps he may guess, to delay his
satisfaction a little longer.
Mr Jones and his fair companion no sooner entered the town, than they
went directly to that inn which in their eyes presented the fairest
appearance to the street. Here Jones, having ordered a servant to show
a room above stairs, was ascending, when the dishevelled fair, hastily
following, was laid hold on by the master of the house, who cried,
"Heyday, where is that beggar wench going? Stay below stairs, I desire
you." But Jones at that instant thundered from above, "Let the lady
come up," in so authoritative a voice, that the good man instantly
withdrew his hands, and the lady made the best of her way to the
chamber.
Here Jones wished her joy of her safe arrival, and then departed, in
order, as he promised, to send the landlady up with some cloaths. The
poor woman thanked him heartily for all his kindness, and said, she
hoped she should see him again soon, to thank him a thousand times
more. During this short conversation, she covered her white bosom as
well as she could possibly with her arms; for Jones could not avoid
stealing a sly peep or two, though he took all imaginable care to
avoid giving any offence.
Our travellers had happened to take up their residence at a house of
exceeding good repute, whither Irish ladies of strict virtue, and many
northern lasses of the same predicament, were accustomed to resort in
their way to Bath. The landlady therefore would by no means have
admitted any conversation of a disreputable kind to pass under her
roof. Indeed, so foul and contagious are all such proceedings, that
they contaminate the very innocent scenes where they are committed,
and give the name of a bad house, or of a house of ill repute, to all
those where they are suffered to be carried on.
Not that I would intimate that such strict chastity as was preserved
in the temple of Vesta can possibly be maintained at a public inn. My
good landlady did not hope for such a blessing, nor would any of the
ladies I have spoken of, or indeed any others of the most rigid note,
have expected or insisted on any such thing. But to exclude all vulgar
concubinage, and to drive all whores in rags from within the walls, is
within the power of every one. This my landlady very strictly adhered
to, and this her virtuous guests, who did not travel in rags, would
very reasonably have expected of her.
Now it required no very blameable degree of suspicion to imagine that
Mr Jones and his ragged companion had certain purposes in their
intention, which, though tolerated in some Christian countries,
connived at in others, and practised in all, are however as expressly
forbidden as murder, or any other horrid vice, by that religion which
is universally believed in those countries. The landlady, therefore,
had no sooner received an intimation of the entrance of the above-said
persons than she began to meditate the most expeditious means for
their expulsion. In order to this, she had provided herself with a
long and deadly instrument, with which, in times of peace, the
chambermaid was wont to demolish the labours of the industrious
spider. In vulgar phrase, she had taken up the broomstick, and was
just about to sally from the kitchen, when Jones accosted her with a
demand of a gown and other vestments, to cover the half-naked woman
upstairs.
Nothing can be more provoking to the human temper, nor more dangerous
to that cardinal virtue, patience, than solicitations of extraordinary
offices of kindness on behalf of those very persons with whom we are
highly incensed. For this reason Shakespear hath artfully introduced
his Desdemona soliciting favours for Cassio of her husband, as the
means of inflaming, not only his jealousy, but his rage, to the
highest pitch of madness; and we find the unfortunate Moor less able
to command his passion on this occasion, than even when he beheld his
valued present to his wife in the hands of his supposed rival. In
fact, we regard these efforts as insults on our understanding, and to
such the pride of man is very difficultly brought to submit.
My landlady, though a very good-tempered woman, had, I suppose, some
of this pride in her composition, for Jones had scarce ended his
request, when she fell upon him with a certain weapon, which, though
it be neither long, nor sharp, nor hard, nor indeed threatens from its
appearance with either death or wound, hath been however held in great
dread and abhorrence by many wise men--nay, by many brave ones;
insomuch, that some who have dared to look into the mouth of a loaded
cannon, have not dared to look into a mouth where this weapon was
brandished; and rather than run the hazard of its execution, have
contented themselves with making a most pitiful and sneaking figure in
the eyes of all their acquaintance.
To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones was one of these; for
though he was attacked and violently belaboured with the aforesaid
weapon, he could not be provoked to make any resistance; but in a most
cowardly manner applied, with many entreaties, to his antagonist to
desist from pursuing her blows; in plain English, he only begged her
with the utmost earnestness to hear him; but before he could obtain
his request, my landlord himself entered into the fray, and embraced
that side of the cause which seemed to stand very little in need of
assistance.
There are a sort of heroes who are supposed to be determined in their
chusing or avoiding a conflict by the character and behaviour of the
person whom they are to engage. These are said to know their men, and
Jones, I believe, knew his woman; for though he had been so submissive
to her, he was no sooner attacked by her husband, than he demonstrated
an immediate spirit of resentment, and enjoined him silence under a
very severe penalty; no less than that, I think, of being converted
into fuel for his own fire.
The husband, with great indignation, but with a mixture of pity,
answered, "You must pray first to be made able. I believe I am a
better man than yourself; ay, every way, that I am;" and presently
proceeded to discharge half-a-dozen whores at the lady above stairs,
the last of which had scarce issued from his lips, when a swinging
blow from the cudgel that Jones carried in his hand assaulted him over
the shoulders.
It is a question whether the landlord or the landlady was the most
expeditious in returning this blow. My landlord, whose hands were
empty, fell to with his fist, and the good wife, uplifting her broom
and aiming at the head of Jones, had probably put an immediate end to
the fray, and to Jones likewise, had not the descent of this broom
been prevented--not by the miraculous intervention of any heathen
deity, but by a very natural though fortunate accident, viz., by the
arrival of Partridge; who entered the house at that instant (for fear
had caused him to run every step from the hill), and who, seeing the
danger which threatened his master or companion (which you chuse to
call him), prevented so sad a catastrophe, by catching hold of the
landlady's arm, as it was brandished aloft in the air.
The landlady soon perceived the impediment which prevented her blow;
and being unable to rescue her arm from the hands of Partridge, she
let fall the broom; and then leaving Jones to the discipline of her
husband, she fell with the utmost fury on that poor fellow, who had
already given some intimation of himself, by crying, "Zounds! do you
intend to kill my friend?"
Partridge, though not much addicted to battle, would not however stand
still when his friend was attacked; nor was he much displeased with
that part of the combat which fell to his share; he therefore returned
my landlady's blows as soon as he received them: and now the fight was
obstinately maintained on all parts, and it seemed doubtful to which
side Fortune would incline, when the naked lady, who had listened at
the top of the stairs to the dialogue which preceded the engagement,
descended suddenly from above, and without weighing the unfair
inequality of two to one, fell upon the poor woman who was boxing with
Partridge; nor did that great champion desist, but rather redoubled
his fury, when he found fresh succours were arrived to his assistance.
Victory must now have fallen to the side of the travellers (for the
bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan the chambermaid
come luckily to support her mistress. This Susan was as two-handed a
wench (according to the phrase) as any in the country, and would, I
believe, have beat the famed Thalestris herself, or any of her subject
Amazons; for her form was robust and man-like, and every way made for
such encounters. As her hands and arms were formed to give blows with
great mischief to an enemy, so was her face as well contrived to
receive blows without any great injury to herself, her nose being
already flat to her face; her lips were so large, that no swelling
could be perceived in them, and moreover they were so hard, that a
fist could hardly make any impression on them. Lastly, her cheek-bones
stood out, as if nature had intended them for two bastions to defend
her eyes in those encounters for which she seemed so well calculated,
and to which she was most wonderfully well inclined.
This fair creature entering the field of battle, immediately filed to
that wing where her mistress maintained so unequal a fight with one of
either sex. Here she presently challenged Partridge to single combat.
He accepted the challenge, and a most desperate fight began between
them.
Now the dogs of war being let loose, began to lick their bloody lips;
now Victory, with golden wings, hung hovering in the air; now Fortune,
taking her scales from her shelf, began to weigh the fates of Tom
Jones, his female companion, and Partridge, against the landlord, his
wife, and maid; all which hung in exact balance before her; when a
good-natured accident put suddenly an end to the bloody fray, with
which half of the combatants had already sufficiently feasted. This
accident was the arrival of a coach and four; upon which my landlord
and landlady immediately desisted from fighting, and at their entreaty
obtained the same favour of their antagonists: but Susan was not so
kind to Partridge; for that Amazonian fair having overthrown and
bestrid her enemy, was now cuffing him lustily with both her hands,
without any regard to his request of a cessation of arms, or to those
loud exclamations of murder which he roared forth.
No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the landlord, than he flew to
the rescue of his defeated companion, from whom he with much
difficulty drew off the enraged chambermaid: but Partridge was not
immediately sensible of his deliverance, for he still lay flat on the
floor, guarding his face with his hands; nor did he cease roaring till
Jones had forced him to look up, and to perceive that the battle was
at an end.
The landlord, who had no visible hurt, and the landlady, hiding her
well-scratched face with her handkerchief, ran both hastily to the
door to attend the coach, from which a young lady and her maid now
alighted. These the landlady presently ushered into that room where Mr
Jones had at first deposited his fair prize, as it was the best
apartment in the house. Hither they were obliged to pass through the
field of battle, which they did with the utmost haste, covering their
faces with their handkerchiefs, as desirous to avoid the notice of any
one. Indeed their caution was quite unnecessary; for the poor
unfortunate Helen, the fatal cause of all the bloodshed, was entirely
taken up in endeavouring to conceal her own face, and Jones was no
less occupied in rescuing Partridge from the fury of Susan; which
being happily effected, the poor fellow immediately departed to the
pump to wash his face, and to stop that bloody torrent which Susan had
plentifully set a-flowing from his nostrils.
Chapter iv.
In which the arrival of a man of war puts a final end to hostilities,
and causes the conclusion of a firm and lasting peace between all
parties.
A serjeant and a file of musqueteers, with a deserter in their
custody, arrived about this time. The serjeant presently enquired for
the principal magistrate of the town, and was informed by my landlord,
that he himself was vested in that office. He then demanded his
billets, together with a mug of beer, and complaining it was cold,
spread himself before the kitchen fire.
Mr Jones was at this time comforting the poor distressed lady, who sat
down at a table in the kitchen, and leaning her head upon her arm, was
bemoaning her misfortunes; but lest my fair readers should be in pain
concerning a particular circumstance, I think proper here to acquaint
them, that before she had quitted the room above stairs, she had so
well covered herself with a pillowbeer which she there found, that her
regard to decency was not in the least violated by the presence of so
many men as were now in the room.
One of the soldiers now went up to the serjeant, and whispered
something in his ear; upon which he stedfastly fixed his eyes on the
lady, and having looked at her for near a minute, he came up to her,
saying, "I ask pardon, madam; but I am certain I am not deceived; you
can be no other person than Captain Waters's lady?"
The poor woman, who in her present distress had very little regarded
the face of any person present, no sooner looked at the serjeant than
she presently recollected him, and calling him by his name, answered,
"That she was indeed the unhappy person he imagined her to be;" but
added, "I wonder any one should know me in this disguise." To which
the serjeant replied, "He was very much surprized to see her ladyship
in such a dress, and was afraid some accident had happened to
her."--"An accident hath happened to me, indeed," says she, "and I am
highly obliged to this gentleman" (pointing to Jones) "that it was not
a fatal one, or that I am now living to mention it."--"Whatever the
gentleman hath done," cries the serjeant, "I am sure the captain will
make him amends for it; and if I can be of any service, your ladyship
may command me, and I shall think myself very happy to have it in my
power to serve your ladyship; and so indeed may any one, for I know
the captain will well reward them for it."
The landlady, who heard from the stairs all that past between the
serjeant and Mrs Waters, came hastily down, and running directly up to
her, began to ask pardon for the offences she had committed, begging
that all might be imputed to ignorance of her quality: for, "Lud!
madam," says she, "how should I have imagined that a lady of your
fashion would appear in such a dress? I am sure, madam, if I had once
suspected that your ladyship was your ladyship, I would sooner have
burnt my tongue out, than have said what I have said; and I hope your
ladyship will accept of a gown, till you can get your own cloaths."
"Prithee, woman," says Mrs Waters, "cease your impertinence: how can
you imagine I should concern myself about anything which comes from
the lips of such low creatures as yourself? But I am surprized at your
assurance in thinking, after what is past, that I will condescend to
put on any of your dirty things. I would have you know, creature, I
have a spirit above that."
Here Jones interfered, and begged Mrs Waters to forgive the landlady,
and to accept her gown: "for I must confess," cries he, "our
appearance was a little suspicious when first we came in; and I am
well assured all this good woman did was, as she professed, out of
regard to the reputation of her house."
"Yes, upon my truly was it," says she: "the gentleman speaks very much
like a gentleman, and I see very plainly is so; and to be certain the
house is well known to be a house of as good reputation as any on the
road, and though I say it, is frequented by gentry of the best
quality, both Irish and English. I defy anybody to say black is my
eye, for that matter. And, as I was saying, if I had known your
ladyship to be your ladyship, I would as soon have burnt my fingers as
have affronted your ladyship; but truly where gentry come and spend
their money, I am not willing that they should be scandalized by a set
of poor shabby vermin, that, wherever they go, leave more lice than
money behind them; such folks never raise my compassion, for to be
certain it is foolish to have any for them; and if our justices did as
they ought, they would be all whipt out of the kingdom, for to be
certain it is what is most fitting for them. But as for your ladyship,
I am heartily sorry your ladyship hath had a misfortune, and if your
ladyship will do me the honour to wear my cloaths till you can get
some of your ladyship's own, to be certain the best I have is at your
ladyship's service."
Whether cold, shame, or the persuasions of Mr Jones prevailed most on
Mrs Waters, I will not determine, but she suffered herself to be
pacified by this speech of my landlady, and retired with that good
woman, in order to apparel herself in a decent manner.
My landlord was likewise beginning his oration to Jones, but was
presently interrupted by that generous youth, who shook him heartily
by the hand, and assured him of entire forgiveness, saying, "If you
are satisfied, my worthy friend, I promise you I am;" and indeed, in
one sense, the landlord had the better reason to be satisfied; for he
had received a bellyfull of drubbing, whereas Jones had scarce felt a
single blow.
Partridge, who had been all this time washing his bloody nose at the
pump, returned into the kitchen at the instant when his master and the
landlord were shaking hands with each other. As he was of a peaceable
disposition, he was pleased with those symptoms of reconciliation; and
though his face bore some marks of Susan's fist, and many more of her
nails, he rather chose to be contented with his fortune in the last
battle than to endeavour at bettering it in another.
The heroic Susan was likewise well contented with her victory, though
it had cost her a black eye, which Partridge had given her at the
first onset. Between these two, therefore, a league was struck, and
those hands which had been the instruments of war became now the
mediators of peace.
Matters were thus restored to a perfect calm; at which the serjeant,
though it may seem so contrary to the principles of his profession,
testified his approbation. "Why now, that's friendly," said he; "d--n
me, I hate to see two people bear ill-will to one another after they
have had a tussel. The only way when friends quarrel is to see it out
fairly in a friendly manner, as a man may call it, either with a fist,
or sword, or pistol, according as they like, and then let it be all
over; for my own part, d--n me if ever I love my friend better than
when I am fighting with him! To bear malice is more like a Frenchman
than an Englishman."
He then proposed a libation as a necessary part of the ceremony at all
treaties of this kind. Perhaps the reader may here conclude that he
was well versed in antient history; but this, though highly probable,
as he cited no authority to support the custom, I will not affirm with
any confidence. Most likely indeed it is, that he founded his opinion
on very good authority, since he confirmed it with many violent oaths.
Jones no sooner heard the proposal than, immediately agreeing with the
learned serjeant, he ordered a bowl, or rather a large mug, filled
with the liquor used on these occasions, to be brought in, and then
began the ceremony himself. He placed his right hand in that of the
landlord, and, seizing the bowl with his left, uttered the usual
words, and then made his libation. After which, the same was observed
by all present. Indeed, there is very little need of being particular
in describing the whole form, as it differed so little from those
libations of which so much is recorded in antient authors and their
modern transcribers. The principal difference lay in two instances;
for, first, the present company poured the liquor only down their
throats; and, secondly, the serjeant, who officiated as priest, drank
the last; but he preserved, I believe, the antient form, in swallowing
much the largest draught of the whole company, and in being the only
person present who contributed nothing towards the libation besides
his good offices in assisting at the performance.
The good people now ranged themselves round the kitchen fire, where
good humour seemed to maintain an absolute dominion; and Partridge not
only forgot his shameful defeat, but converted hunger into thirst, and
soon became extremely facetious. We must however quit this agreeable
assembly for a while, and attend Mr Jones to Mrs Waters's apartment,
where the dinner which he had bespoke was now on the table. Indeed, it
took no long time in preparing, having been all drest three days
before, and required nothing more from the cook than to warm it over
again.
Chapter v.
An apology for all heroes who have good stomachs, with a description
of a battle of the amorous kind.
Heroes, notwithstanding the high ideas which, by the means of
flatterers, they may entertain of themselves, or the world may
conceive of them, have certainly more of mortal than divine about
them. However elevated their minds may be, their bodies at least
(which is much the major part of most) are liable to the worst
infirmities, and subject to the vilest offices of human nature. Among
these latter, the act of eating, which hath by several wise men been
considered as extremely mean and derogatory from the philosophic
dignity, must be in some measure performed by the greatest prince,
heroe, or philosopher upon earth; nay, sometimes Nature hath been so
frolicsome as to exact of these dignified characters a much more
exorbitant share of this office than she hath obliged those of the
lowest order to perform.
To say the truth, as no known inhabitant of this globe is really more
than man, so none need be ashamed of submitting to what the
necessities of man demand; but when those great personages I have just
mentioned condescend to aim at confining such low offices to
themselves--as when, by hoarding or destroying, they seem desirous to
prevent any others from eating--then they surely become very low and
despicable.
Now, after this short preface, we think it no disparagement to our
heroe to mention the immoderate ardour with which he laid about him at
this season. Indeed, it may be doubted whether Ulysses, who by the way
seems to have had the best stomach of all the heroes in that eating
poem of the Odyssey, ever made a better meal. Three pounds at least of
that flesh which formerly had contributed to the composition of an ox
was now honoured with becoming part of the individual Mr Jones.
This particular we thought ourselves obliged to mention, as it may
account for our heroe's temporary neglect of his fair companion, who
eat but very little, and was indeed employed in considerations of a
very different nature, which passed unobserved by Jones, till he had
entirely satisfied that appetite which a fast of twenty-four hours had
procured him; but his dinner was no sooner ended than his attention to
other matters revived; with these matters therefore we shall now
proceed to acquaint the reader.
Mr Jones, of whose personal accomplishments we have hitherto said very
little, was, in reality, one of the handsomest young fellows in the
world. His face, besides being the picture of health, had in it the
most apparent marks of sweetness and good-nature. These qualities were
indeed so characteristical in his countenance, that, while the spirit
and sensibility in his eyes, though they must have been perceived by
an accurate observer, might have escaped the notice of the less
discerning, so strongly was this good-nature painted in his look, that
it was remarked by almost every one who saw him.
It was, perhaps, as much owing to this as to a very fine complexion
that his face had a delicacy in it almost inexpressible, and which
might have given him an air rather too effeminate, had it not been
joined to a most masculine person and mien: which latter had as much
in them of the Hercules as the former had of the Adonis. He was
besides active, genteel, gay, and good-humoured; and had a flow of
animal spirits which enlivened every conversation where he was
present.
When the reader hath duly reflected on these many charms which all
centered in our heroe, and considers at the same time the fresh
obligations which Mrs Waters had to him, it will be a mark more of
prudery than candour to entertain a bad opinion of her because she
conceived a very good opinion of him.
But, whatever censures may be passed upon her, it is my business to
relate matters of fact with veracity. Mrs Waters had, in truth, not
only a good opinion of our heroe, but a very great affection for him.
To speak out boldly at once, she was in love, according to the present
universally-received sense of that phrase, by which love is applied
indiscriminately to the desirable objects of all our passions,
appetites, and senses, and is understood to be that preference which
we give to one kind of food rather than to another.
But though the love to these several objects may possibly be one and
the same in all cases, its operations however must be allowed to be
different; for, how much soever we may be in love with an excellent
surloin of beef, or bottle of Burgundy; with a damask rose, or Cremona
fiddle; yet do we never smile, nor ogle, nor dress, nor flatter, nor
endeavour by any other arts or tricks to gain the affection of the
said beef, &c. Sigh indeed we sometimes may; but it is generally in
the absence, not in the presence, of the beloved object. For otherwise
we might possibly complain of their ingratitude and deafness, with the
same reason as Pasiphae doth of her bull, whom she endeavoured to
engage by all the coquetry practised with good success in the
drawing-room on the much more sensible as well as tender hearts of the
fine gentlemen there.
The contrary happens in that love which operates between persons of
the same species, but of different sexes. Here we are no sooner in
love than it becomes our principal care to engage the affection of the
object beloved. For what other purpose indeed are our youth instructed
in all the arts of rendering themselves agreeable? If it was not with
a view to this love, I question whether any of those trades which deal
in setting off and adorning the human person would procure a
livelihood. Nay, those great polishers of our manners, who are by some
thought to teach what principally distinguishes us from the brute
creation, even dancing-masters themselves, might possibly find no
place in society. In short, all the graces which young ladies and
young gentlemen too learn from others, and the many improvements
which, by the help of a looking-glass, they add of their own, are in
reality those very _spicula et faces amoris_ so often mentioned by
Ovid; or, as they are sometimes called in our own language, the whole
artillery of love.
Now Mrs Waters and our heroe had no sooner sat down together than the
former began to play this artillery upon the latter. But here, as we
are about to attempt a description hitherto unassayed either in prose
or verse, we think proper to invoke the assistance of certain aërial
beings, who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on this
occasion.
"Say then, ye Graces! you that inhabit the heavenly mansions of
Seraphina's countenance; for you are truly divine, are always in her
presence, and well know all the arts of charming; say, what were the
weapons now used to captivate the heart of Mr Jones."
"First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed lightning
at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles; but, happily for our
heroe, hit only a vast piece of beef which he was then conveying into
his plate, and harmless spent their force. The fair warrior perceived
their miscarriage, and immediately from her fair bosom drew forth a
deadly sigh. A sigh which none could have heard unmoved, and which was
sufficient at once to have swept off a dozen beaus; so soft, so sweet,
so tender, that the insinuating air must have found its subtle way to
the heart of our heroe, had it not luckily been driven from his ears
by the coarse bubbling of some bottled ale, which at that time he was
pouring forth. Many other weapons did she assay; but the god of eating
(if there be any such deity, for I do not confidently assert it)
preserved his votary; or perhaps it may not be _dignus vindice nodus_,
and the present security of Jones may be accounted for by natural
means; for as love frequently preserves from the attacks of hunger, so
may hunger possibly, in some cases, defend us against love.
"The fair one, enraged at her frequent disappointments, determined on
a short cessation of arms. Which interval she employed in making ready
every engine of amorous warfare for the renewing of the attack when
dinner should be over.
"No sooner then was the cloth removed than she again began her
operations. First, having planted her right eye sidewise against Mr
Jones, she shot from its corner a most penetrating glance; which,
though great part of its force was spent before it reached our heroe,
did not vent itself absolutely without effect. This the fair one
perceiving, hastily withdrew her eyes, and levelled them downwards, as
if she was concerned for what she had done; though by this means she
designed only to draw him from his guard, and indeed to open his eyes,
through which she intended to surprize his heart. And now, gently
lifting up those two bright orbs which had already begun to make an
impression on poor Jones, she discharged a volley of small charms at
once from her whole countenance in a smile. Not a smile of mirth, nor
of joy; but a smile of affection, which most ladies have always ready
at their command, and which serves them to show at once their
good-humour, their pretty dimples, and their white teeth.
"This smile our heroe received full in his eyes, and was immediately
staggered with its force. He then began to see the designs of the
enemy, and indeed to feel their success. A parley now was set on foot
between the parties; during which the artful fair so slily and
imperceptibly carried on her attack, that she had almost subdued the
heart of our heroe before she again repaired to acts of hostility. To
confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones maintained a kind of Dutch
defence, and treacherously delivered up the garrison, without duly
weighing his allegiance to the fair Sophia. In short, no sooner had
the amorous parley ended and the lady had unmasked the royal battery,
by carelessly letting her handkerchief drop from her neck, than the
heart of Mr Jones was entirely taken, and the fair conqueror enjoyed
the usual fruits of her victory."
Here the Graces think proper to end their description, and here we
think proper to end the chapter.
Chapter vi.
A friendly conversation in the kitchen, which had a very common,
though not very friendly, conclusion.
While our lovers were entertaining themselves in the manner which is
partly described in the foregoing chapter, they were likewise
furnishing out an entertainment for their good friends in the kitchen.
And this in a double sense, by affording them matter for their
conversation, and, at the same time, drink to enliven their spirits.
There were now assembled round the kitchen fire, besides my landlord
and landlady, who occasionally went backward and forward, Mr
Partridge, the serjeant, and the coachman who drove the young lady and
her maid.
Partridge having acquainted the company with what he had learnt from
the Man of the Hill concerning the situation in which Mrs Waters had
been found by Jones, the serjeant proceeded to that part of her
history which was known to him. He said she was the wife of Mr Waters,
who was a captain in their regiment, and had often been with him at
quarters. "Some folks," says he, "used indeed to doubt whether they
were lawfully married in a church or no. But, for my part, that's no
business of mine: I must own, if I was put to my corporal oath, I
believe she is little better than one of us; and I fancy the captain
may go to heaven when the sun shines upon a rainy day. But if he does,
that is neither here nor there; for he won't want company. And the
lady, to give the devil his due, is a very good sort of lady, and
loves the cloth, and is always desirous to do strict justice to it;
for she hath begged off many a poor soldier, and, by her good-will,
would never have any of them punished. But yet, to be sure, Ensign
Northerton and she were very well acquainted together at our last
quarters; that is the very right and truth of the matter. But the
captain he knows nothing about it; and as long as there is enough for
him too, what does it signify? He loves her not a bit the worse, and I
am certain would run any man through the body that was to abuse her;
therefore I won't abuse her, for my part. I only repeat what other
folks say; and, to be certain, what everybody says, there must be some
truth in."--"Ay, ay, a great deal of truth, I warrant you," cries
Partridge; "_Veritas odium parit_"--"All a parcel of scandalous
stuff," answered the mistress of the house. "I am sure, now she is
drest, she looks like a very good sort of lady, and she behaves
herself like one; for she gave me a guinea for the use of my
cloaths."--"A very good lady indeed!" cries the landlord; "and if you
had not been a little too hasty, you would not have quarrelled with
her as you did at first."--"You need mention that with my truly!"
answered she: "if it had not been for your nonsense, nothing had
happened. You must be meddling with what did not belong to you, and
throw in your fool's discourse."--"Well, well," answered he; "what's
past cannot be mended, so there's an end of the matter."--"Yes," cries
she, "for this once; but will it be mended ever the more hereafter?
This is not the first time I have suffered for your numscull's pate. I
wish you would always hold your tongue in the house, and meddle only
in matters without doors, which concern you. Don't you remember what
happened about seven years ago?"--"Nay, my dear," returned he, "don't
rip up old stories. Come, come, all's well, and I am sorry for what I
have done." The landlady was going to reply, but was prevented by the
peace-making serjeant, sorely to the displeasure of Partridge, who was
a great lover of what is called fun, and a great promoter of those
harmless quarrels which tend rather to the production of comical than
tragical incidents.
The serjeant asked Partridge whither he and his master were travelling?
"None of your magisters," answered Partridge; "I am no man's servant, I
assure you; for, though I have had misfortunes in the world, I write
gentleman after my name; and, as poor and simple as I may appear now, I
have taught grammar-school in my time; _sed hei mihi! non sum quod
fui_."--"No offence, I hope, sir," said the serjeant; "where, then, if
I may venture to be so bold, may you and your friend be
travelling?"--"You have now denominated us right," says Partridge.
"_Amici sumus._ And I promise you my friend is one of the greatest
gentlemen in the kingdom" (at which words both landlord and landlady
pricked up their ears). "He is the heir of Squire Allworthy."--"What,
the squire who doth so much good all over the country?" cries my
landlady. "Even he," answered Partridge.--"Then I warrant," says she,
"he'll have a swinging great estate hereafter."--"Most certainly,"
answered Partridge.--"Well," replied the landlady, "I thought the first
moment I saw him he looked like a good sort of gentleman; but my
husband here, to be sure, is wiser than anybody."--"I own, my dear,"
cries he, "it was a mistake."--"A mistake, indeed!" answered she; "but
when did you ever know me to make such mistakes?"--"But how comes it,
sir," cries the landlord, "that such a great gentleman walks about the
country afoot?"--"I don't know," returned Partridge; "great gentlemen
have humours sometimes. He hath now a dozen horses and servants at
Gloucester; and nothing would serve him, but last night, it being very
hot weather, he must cool himself with a walk to yon high hill, whither
I likewise walked with him to bear him company; but if ever you catch
me there again: for I was never so frightened in all my life. We met
with the strangest man there."--"I'll be hanged," cries the landlord,
"if it was not the Man of the Hill, as they call him; if indeed he be a
man; but I know several people who believe it is the devil that lives
there."--"Nay, nay, like enough," says Partridge; "and now you put me
in the head of it, I verily and sincerely believe it was the devil,
though I could not perceive his cloven foot: but perhaps he might have
the power given him to hide that, since evil spirits can appear in what
shapes they please."--"And pray, sir," says the serjeant, "no offence,
I hope; but pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil? For I have
heard some of our officers say there is no such person; and that it is
only a trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke; for, if it
was publickly known that there was no devil, the parsons would be of no
more use than we are in time of peace."--"Those officers," says
Partridge, "are very great scholars, I suppose."--"Not much of
schollards neither," answered the serjeant; "they have not half your
learning, sir, I believe; and, to be sure, I thought there must be a
devil, notwithstanding what they said, though one of them was a
captain; for methought, thinks I to myself, if there be no devil, how
can wicked people be sent to him? and I have read all that upon a
book."--"Some of your officers," quoth the landlord, "will find there
is a devil, to their shame, I believe. I don't question but he'll pay
off some old scores upon my account. Here was one quartered upon me
half a year, who had the conscience to take up one of my best beds,
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